


That I am certainly not

by maxvell



Series: Stories of the Moles of the White City [1]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Fix-It of Sorts, M/M, Maegs is a chaotic bisexual, Post-Canon, Soft Bois in Valinor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 07:54:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23847757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maxvell/pseuds/maxvell
Summary: During Summer and Autumn, Maeglin and Asthor take the chances they have to be alone and always meet on their special spot by a cliff. It’s not much, but it’s their place, and that’s all that matters
Relationships: Maeglin | Lómion/Original Male Character(s)
Series: Stories of the Moles of the White City [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1718443
Kudos: 5





	That I am certainly not

**Author's Note:**

> Oop this was my entry to a fanfic contest on one of the lord of the rings aminos. We had to chose between three prompts, which was kinda hard considering I wasn’t really particularly fond of any of them, though out of all of those the one that interested me the most was the cc/oc prompt. I only have two oc/cc pairings in the Tolkienverse, and since I promised I’d give Asthor more love, he and Maeglin were the ones I ended up going with.
> 
> This shot takes place between the events of Stories from the Moles of the White City, more specifically after Maeglin has left the Halls of Mandos, but before Tinwë finds him for the first time

In Töl Eressëa there is a cliff. There’s nothing special about it, really. The remains of an old house sit nearby, and that’s about the only thing that calls back to civilization for endless miles. But even that old cottage is now overtaken by nature, and now vine and moss and fern cover the walls until practically nothing of the original wood remains seen. It’s a wild cliff, untouched by the Elda and frozen in time. And perhaps that’s the reason Maeglin likes it so much. He himself is, after all, a creature of nature, a foreign thing that would never fully belong in any Noldo city in Aman. 

He sits near the ruins of the old house, calloused hands meticulously working as they wrap leather around the hilt of the dagger they’ve been working on for the last month. It’s weird- working in a forge once more after everything he’s been through, but none the less, it’s less hard to hold a hammer now, and the scent of the melting metals almost smells like home once more. Though still not quite home. And that quite is slowly but surely killing him on the inside. 

The summer breeze helps slightly- to muffle the choking sensation he feels when he’s forced to go to Avallónë that is. Lómion never pictured himself liking summer. And yet it has probably become his favorite season since he stepped out of the Halls of Waiting. Not like he minds keeping track of what he likes anymore tough.

Well, perhaps that’s not as true as he’d like it to be. There is something he knows he really likes- or rather, someone he really likes. In fact, he can hear that someone not so far away now, their steps getting closer and closer by the minute. He does not mind meeting up with them though. He knows they’ll come to him. It’s in their nature after all. For now, Lómion simply goes back to his task of working on the hilt of the blade in his hands.

Asthor ran a hand through the fallen stone wall as he walked, the moss feeling funny on his fingers, but not as unpleasant as it would perhaps be for some. It was unusually moist,he noted. It had rained in the region not long ago. If that wasn’t enough of a giveaway, then the mud on his white boots should be.The blond made his way around the wall, passing through a small fence gate so that he could get to the side in which the cliff’s edge stood, and surely enough, there was the same person he had already been expecting to see.   
They didn’t need to say anything at first- they never did, though as usual, Asthor was the first to speak.

“I know you had a disagreement with your uncle.” The prince pointed out, glancing over at the dark haired ellon next to him. “And I know you. You are overthinking it again. It was not as bad as you’re thinking, Lo, and Turgon is not mad at you anymore.” The blond male pressed on. Maeglin did not react, did not give him an answer, and minutes passed before he finally spoke up.

“I gave up trying to have a proper relationship with him a long time ago, Asthya. And if I wanted to talk about it, I’d be back in the palace with my mother.” The half Avar retorted. 

“Does she know you come here to brood on a daily basis?” Asked Asthor, tilting his head slightly and letting his untamable golden curls cascade over his shoulder.

“No.” — responded Maeglin — “She thinks I’m in Celebrimbor’s forge. Does your mother know you come here to smoosh with the most detested Noldor in history after the Sons of Feanör?” 

Asthor scoffed at that, shaking his head before resting it on his partner’s shoulder. “You really don’t realize how much those around you truly love you, Lómion. No one thinks you a traitor anymore. Not now that they know what you went through. For a long time, your only enemy has been yourself.” 

Whatever arrogant and cocky response Maeglin had ready died on his throat when he looked at his side and saw the deep frown in his beloved’s face. No more words were spoken for what felt like hours. Hours which were mainly occupied by Asthor reading a book which he had brought on his satchel and Lómion still working on his dagger’s hilt. 

“You don’t mind if I read out loud, do you? I have to train my voice range for my next play.” The half Vanya eventually asked.

“You already know I like your voice, why do you still ask?” The dark haired ellon wondered sarcastically. Asthor simply gave him a ghostly smile, flipping the page to where the new chapter begun. 

“This is the fashion of the lands in which the Noldor came, in the north of the western regions of Middle-earth, in the ancient days; and there is also told of the manner in which the chieftains of the Eldar held their lands and the leaguer upon Morgoth after the Dagor Aglareb, the third battle on the Wars of Beleriand.”

“You are reading the Quenta Silmarillion? Really?” The brunette murmured sarcastically, though he didn’t even spare the other a glance, his eyes too busy wrapping a strip of leather around his blade’s handle. 

“I’ll be both Pengolodh and the narrator of this year’s Tarnin Austa play, so yes, I am reading what will be my script. Wether it was written by a coworker of yours or not.” The blonde smiled defiantly before going back to his loud reading. Maeglin simply shook his head, going back to his commissioned work.

  


  


The lush green vegetation of summer was soon replaced by the warm hues and fallen leaves of autumn. The same leaves that crunched loudly under Asthor’s boots as he made his way back to his old meeting spot. Even through the dim clouds, his hair still appeared to shine in a holy way, Maeglin noted as the blond approached him. 

The Vanya’s hair was utterly disheveled, and Lómion could swear there was a poorly wiped away mud stain on one of his cheeks, though he was still smiling as brightly as he always did as he approached. He was looking awfully smug too.

“I’d ask about your state, but at this point I’m too afraid to ask.” He pale ellon murmured. Asthor sat next to him, his proud look not fading away even as the Avar pointed out how much of a mess he looked.

“I found something on my way here.” He confessed with a small sigh. Immediately, he started fumbling through his satchel. Instead of pulling out a book, this time he got out a jar. At first Maeglin thought it was empty, but then he noticed something. A bug. A bug so small you almost had to squint your eyes to see it.

“Is that—“ Lómion didn’t have the chance to even finish when Asthor decided to do that for him.

“A firefly? Yes. I found it on my bedroom’s window just as I was leaving.” He beamed. “You know— he cooed — they are said to bring couples good luck if you released them at sunset.” He grinned smugly.

“Hunh. For how long have you been reading about the traditions of the Windan?” Lómion asked, raising an amused but still slightly septic eyebrow. Asthor let out a small, thoughtful hum, though he didn’t necessarily need to think about it. He already knew the answer.

“Since I found out about that side of your lineage? Me and my sister visited the Avari living in that forest near the shore and found prince Néo there.” The Vanya paused there, looking back to Lómion’s direction to take a good look as his expression changed at the mention of the name “You never told me he was your cousin.” The blond pointed out. Maeglin shrugged slightly, even though he was clearly more tense than before. 

“We are not that close. It was not an exactly important thing to mention.” He supposed. Now it was Asthor’s turn to have a septic expression, his nose wrinkling slightly and his eyebrows knitting together. 

“You _were_ both close once though. And raised by the same man too, were you not?” Asthor absentmindedly looked back at the jar in his hands, eyes following the tiny critter as it crawled around the circular walls.

“We _were_. Though when I was only thirty, he threw a fit, ran away and left me alone with him. Or did he leave out _that_ part?” Lómion half snapped with a small snarl. 

“No, he didn’t.” Asthor dismissed, unphased by Maeglin’s barking remark. “Though he told me that he’s sorry, and that he tried to talk to you after he left the halls.” He added.  
Lómion did not reply to that. He couldn’t deny that, but neither did he want to acknowledge it. He sighed and looked ahead, gazing at the horizon ahead as it gradually shifted to yellow, then to orange, and eventually a sunset pink.

“Well, it’s time.” The Avar pointed out. He got up, reaching out a hand to help the other up. Asthor smiled slightly as he took it, letting Lómion pull him up as well. “I trust you have also read about the rest of the tradition and not just the part about catching the firefly?” The dark haired male asked rhetorically. He turned away, leaving the ruins of the old house and walking back into the deep forest. Asthor’s grin widened. He put the jar back on his satchel and followed after him. 

Both walked in a comfortable silence. It took them a while, but eventually they found a nice open clearing, right at the perfect time to watch as the last rays of sun pierced through the scattered trees. Quickly, they sprinted to the middle of the clearing, sighing once they got there. Asthor reached back into the bag, fishing out the jar. Both placed a hand on the lid and carefully opened it, watching as the small bug lit up and flew up in the air until they could no longer see it. 

“You know— Asthor started — it’s a beautiful night. We could stay here a while longer” he proposed, his arms snaking around Lómion’s waist to pull him closer. Maeglin’s lips curled up in the faintest smile. He took one of the blond’s hands and pressed a kiss to his knuckles.

“I don’t see how I could ever refuse.”

Both of them gathered some wood that was scattered nearby and lit up a campfire. Lómion sat as close to it as possible, though he was highly convinced that Asthor himself gave out more warmth than the fire itself, so he quickly huddled up to the white-clad Vanya instead. 

Asthor ran one of his hands though Lómion’s dark hair, humming along one of the songs they had learnt back when both were in a white city surrounded by mountains, a long time ago in a place long forgotten. 

For a moment, Maeglin almost let himself fall asleep, though quickly he shot back upwards. 

“I have something for you.” He remembered. He reached into his own bag, searching through it as best as he could with the extremely dim lighting. Eventually, he pulled out something that was wrapped in multiple thin layers of onionskin.   
Asthor’s lips shifted into a soft smile. He knew what it was the moment Maeglin laid it on his lap.

“If I recall it correctly, you told me this was something you were commissioned.” He pointed out smugly. Carefully, he unwrapped the frail sheets, and out of it pulled out the sheathed dagger. The same dagger Maeglin had been carefully working on the prior summer.

“Aye, I was.— Maeglin confirmed — but I couldn’t stop thinking about you while making it, and now I can’t think about anyone carrying it around but you.” The dark haired ellon murmured. Asthor chuckled slightly, leaning upwards slightly and kissing Maeglin’s cheek. 

“My love, you may be an astounding smith, but a professional businessman? Not so much.” He teased, resting his head in the other’s shoulder and looking up at the night sky. 

“No, that I am certainly not.” Lómion agreed, looking up at the constellations shining in the heavens as wel


End file.
